Shadowrunner
by Ulric Kerensky
Summary: A decent-sized Shadowrun fic. I like it- very violent, very me.


A Tale from the Shadows  
  
Seattle, 2345 Local Time- June 15th, 2060  
  
The pounding techmetal reverberated through the club as the patrons and dancers watched Wolvesblood perform live again at the Big Knobi Klub. Their rendition of "Who Knows, Who Cares, Why Bother" got everyone out of their seats and chanting the chorus, with the exception of one man: Xavier Trent. He remained seated and chanted as the masses of wannabes and hotdoggers moshed about. He, however, was one of the real shadowrunners who formed the regulars at this hotspot. Years of being a street samurai had been moderately kind to the thirty year old elf. Aside from a few scars, he was little worse for wear. His long green hair, kept in place by a "gunslinger" style hat, seemed to be the only the beginning of the bizarre, distinct clothing that separated him from the sweating, psychotic crowd of metal heads. On either arm, a heavy copper armband circled slight but heavily muscled biceps-both vat grown. A long, black armored duster concealed the bulk of his body. A sleeveless flak vest with chainmail overtop, urban- pattern camo pants, and military grade boots completed his bizarre appearance.  
  
It was simple enough to spot him. Standing out as much as Xavier, an averagely built man in a thousand nuyen Armante suit muscled his way through the crowds and sat next to him. "Xavier Trent?" "Yeah, I'm him, Mr.?" "Johnson." Xavier grinned. 'Mr. Johnson' was an old expression in the biz for an anonymous employer. He nodded and got down to business. "Here's the deal: forty thousand nuyen upfront and eighty more once the package is delivered. The job is to recover a prisoner from a street gang." Xavier nodded, and put out his hand. A handful of credsticks found their way there. With that gesture, he had accepted the assignment. "Be here tomorrow night. My man will meet you."  
  
Xavier was back the next night. It was one of the quiet ones by comparison, with few outside of the regular clientele. He sat quietly on a barstool, a ball of tension. He briefly considered ordering a beer from the massive troll bartender, but decided against it. He would need full control tonight. Breathing deeply, he put himself in full control. He was again dressed as the epitome of the classic shadowrunner, but tonight he brought out the gear. Concealed in his forearms were pairs of foot-long retractable blades, and under his skin was dermal plating. His already frighteningly quick reflexes were augmented by a wired reflex upgrade to his whole nervous system. A pair of real leather gun belts crossed his waist, hanging from his hips and acting as bandoliers. Every so often, the chain of high- caliber rounds was broken by the red of shotgun shells. He carried a Colt Manhunter S heavy pistol in a holster hanging off either belt. Strapped to his legs were another pair of holsters, hidden in the folds of his long duster. They each held a Remington Roomsweeper, a foot-and-a-half-long semi- automatic shotgun. At the small of his back was a long survival knife, and above it a Ceska Black Scorpion machine pistol was suspended off of a Whippit sling.  
  
He was startled by a nervous-looking ork who sat next to him. Dressed fairly well, he carried a suitcase. "Mr. Johnson sends his regards." He said simply, then stood up and scurried away. Gus, the bartender, just shook his head and chuckled. Xavier looked over, and saw that he had left the suitcase. Picking it up and opening it, he scanned the contents. There was a map marking the location of the hostage, a picture and wad of nuyen inside. He took the stack of bills, and looked over everything again. The picture in particular caught his attention- it was of a good-looking young woman, with short brown hair and sparkling blue eyes. On the back was a quick note-bring her back alive, to the 6th Street Bridge a week from today. There were no reports of strengths, defenses, numbers or statement of who the enemy was, however. Shrugging, he stood, left some money on the bar, and went about planning the job.  
  
After surveying the place from afar, Xavier determined he would need a decker friend to actually get into the small, rundown complex. It was a single-story abandoned tube station with a steel, maglocked door. Somehow, it seemed unsettling. It was so. vanilla. There was nothing distinctive about it, not even the graffiti on the side. It chilled him. He gunned the motor on one of the few relics left from his Urban Brawl days - "Sea Biscuit", his faithful (meaning heavily armored and upgraded) Harley Davidson Brawler. Roaring away with his long duster trailing, he thought carefully about his next move.  
  
Trent dialed the number on the LTG. A face appeared on the screen, disgruntled at being disturbed. Young, with spiked blonde hair and a gleaming datajack at his right temple, his anger immediately disappeared when he saw Xavier. "Hey boss. What's the deal?" the young man stated cheerily as he soldered away at something off screen. "Hoi Jumpy. Need you for a run- there's thirty thou in it if you're in." "Sure, I guess. What do you need me to do?" "Open a locked door, and then cover me. It's a cakewalk." "'Kay. Be there in twenty." Xavier nodded and hung up. It was a routine for Jumpy to trace every call he received. He got out of the public telecom and went to a nearby shop for a quick soykaf before returning to find his diminutive friend waiting on his Yamaha Rapier sports bike.  
  
Jumpy was a human, weighing in at a mere one hundred and thirty pounds. Short and slim, he looked like a sixteen year old. Wearing flickercading pants, Kevlar T-shirt and his deck in a case over his shoulder, he did little to break the illusion. He cheerfully yelled a greeting to his old friend, dismounted and marched over. "Hey! So what's the deal?" "Crack the door, and cover me while I deal with some thrillers." "Done deal. Gimme a sec and the great and mighty Jumpy will work his mojo." Jumpy flourished about with his usual confidence and bravado, connecting a cord between the console next to the door, the deck in the sack, and the datajack in his temple. He fell prone, slumping onto the concrete. Xavier stood guard, hands next to the grips of his Manhunters.  
  
Xavier's Personal Log  
  
I stood there for about ten minutes, sweating and going over everything in my mind. Hand on one of my Manhunter S's, I watched everything. The street was deserted -not a big surprise, considering it was right next the headquarters of a bunch of thrillers- but everything seemed wrong, from the trash to the smell of the old tube station. We had parked our motorcycles right up against the wall in case we needed to make a quick escape. Jumpy jacked out of the Matrix fairly quickly, even as the doors opened. He hopped to his feet, and freed a Seco LD-120 from his deck case as I tentatively crept forwards, looking down the stairs that led inside. The musty smell that came out was a mixture of chem, body odor and alcohol.  
  
Sweeping back and forth with my Remingtons, I was the first in. Step by step I moved forwards, thermographic vision illuminating everything in a red glow. Debris littered the floor. We gingerly walked over the junk, expecting attack at any moment. Nothing came, however. The only signs of life we saw were the rats, and one thriller who had drunk one too many chemicals. We kept moving.  
  
Halfway down the hall that led to the main platform, we began to hear the shots. Muzzle flashes from just beyond the turn ahead lit the path and fragged with my vision. I pulled the hammers back on both hefty weapons, and pressed my back against the wall. Jumpy followed suit. My adrenaline flow had tripped my wired reflexes a while ago, so time had seemed to slow down. I made quick gestures indicating that he was to follow behind me after a five count, but the only response I got was a "Huh?" and a quizzical expression on my friend's face. Shaking my head, I simply trusted that he knew what he was doing and lobbed myself around the corner, Roomsweepers raised.  
  
Rolling onto my shoulder and up into a crouch, I spotted both sides of the battle that was raging across the platform. Drek, I thought to myself, more competition. The thrillers, dressed in synthleather and green, fought a desperate battle with a well-equipped group of corporate thugs. The thrillers were slowly being pushed back towards the women's restroom, where they had flipped up benches and tables to form a makeshift barricade. Several of their dead hung off of the hastily constructed defenses. In the meantime, the secmen moved forwards, assault rifles barking. Their black armor was unmarked and their faces hidden behind the faceplates of their helmets. I figured it out pretty quick- this was some corp's black light squad, probably sent out on garbage detail.  
  
I made a run out, dashing along the wall. I didn't fire, knowing that picking with one side or the other would have been stupid at best. The instant I had cleared cover, the fire in my direction picked up. Sighting up one of the armored guard a mere twenty feet away, I triggered the Remington in my right hand. The blast hit him full in the chest as his SMG carved divots in the wall behind me as I ran. He stumbled backward, armor gouged but otherwise unharmed. I aimed a little higher, the crosshair on the inside of my eyes reacting to the weapon in my hand. The Remington on the left roared, and most of the buckshot slammed into his helmet. His head whipped backwards with an audible crack as the small lead pellets ricocheted off. The force alone had broken his neck- lucky kill.  
  
The intensity of the fire picked up even more as the guy went down. Behind me, I could hear Jumpy cursing and screaming. His pistol was having little effect against the sec guards either, but it didn't stop him from trying to grease a few of them. Suddenly, I caught movement in my peripheral vision. Firing off another blast to make sure the sec guards kept their heads down, I swiveled my head to see a thriller rushing towards me, obviously fragged to hell. I could see it in his eyes- he was on Beserkide or Black Lace or some other combat drug. Razors popped from each finger on his hands, flashing in the low light. He was only fifteen feet away.then ten... spirits, he was fast. WAS. My Remington slowly- at least from my perspective, because it must have been slotting fast for him- swung around and roared again. The blast took him full in the chest, stopping the movement there. His legs continued to churn, sending him onto his back. He slid towards me, leaving a trail of gore.  
  
I managed to jump over the corpse, but Jumpy (despite his name) didn't quite make it. He sprawled over onto the body with a thud before quickly flipping it onto its side. Seconds later, a dozen rounds rattled into it as Jumpy used it as a shield. Firing another pair of shots at the black light squads, I stopped long enough to yell at my buddy before firing off another pair of shots. The corp bastards were advancing slowly, having realized that my fire couldn't do at real damage at range. Out of nowhere, I felt a small round from one of the thrillers collide with my lined jacket. The bruising force didn't penetrate the Kevlar or ballistic plates, but it hurt like a slitch. Yelling once more, I finished my mad dash towards the barricade. I aimed carefully at the three remaining defenders. My first shot was from ten feet, and it reduced a tough looking young woman's head into a splash of red and a raggedy stump on her neck. The second caught the next thriller in the side, tearing it open. The third clipped the furthest ganger, barely wounding him as I leaped the barricade, and threw most of my weight against the door to the washroom. It shattered beneath my weight, and I toppled through. Two of the thrillers were still alive, though, as I rolled to the left.  
  
* * * * *  
  
Jumpy lobbed himself through the doorway, nearly landing on top of Xavier. Still screaming and cursing as he wheezed and panted, he reloaded his pistol. Xavier, still relatively calm, stuffed his empty Remington into its holster and scanned the room with the remaining one. The dingy room was devoid of anything of note, with the exception of something beneath a Kevlarweave blanket. Crawling forwards, he came up to it and poked it quickly with the muzzle of his shotgun. The object beneath was soft and squishy, not unlike a human. The Roomsweeper had a single shell left in it, but at point blank range it was enough to make even the armored secmen look like they had been through a blender. Flipping the cover off, he found what he had come for- the young woman. She was unconscious, but even then still beautiful. Short, brown hair with red streaks fell over glasses (a rarity in this day and age) which sharpened her soft, rounded features. Looking closer, Xavier spotted a tranq-patch over her cartoid artery. A moment (albeit splintered by automatic gunfire, screams of agony and the thud of bodies) later, he opted to tear it off. It would take the girl a few hours to get past the effects, just long enough for Xavier and Jumpy to figure out what was going on.  
  
Wrapping her up in the blanket, Xavier whipped around as Jumpy screeched in pain, clutching his upper arm. The first sight he saw was a secman in the doorway, bringing up his rifle to finish off Jumpy. Xavier fired the last shell in his Remington at the man from two feet away, sending a spray of what had been the man's guts into the troopers behind him. Before they could bear down and avenge their comrade, blades had popped out of Xavier's forearms, just below the wrist. From a crouch, he sprung into the air, 'claws' extended towards the soldier. Xavier's blades caught the man in the throat, as the secmen behind him gaped in surprise. They tried to bring up rifles, but Xavier's augmented muscles were too quick. With one hand, he batted down the weapon of the one of the right of the corpse just now tumbling to the ground as he shoved his way past it. Another sweep of the claws, and the man was left trying to hold in his guts as they spilled out. By this time, the other trooper had brought up her weapon. She only managed to get off a single round before both sets of blades found their way home into her flesh.  
  
Xavier was knocked back by the force of the round as is slammed into his heavy armored jacket. Passing through the chainmail, the vest barely stopped the bullet and left a fist-sized bruise on Xavier's right side that turned a number of interesting colors over the next few days. Wincing in pain, he forced himself onto his knees, drawing a Colt with one hand. The other held his side as he tried to catch his breath. Reaching below his flak jacket, he gingerly felt the already swelling lump. At least one rib was broken. Crawling over to Jumpy and still glancing warily at the door, he checked over his friend's arm. It was just a flesh wound, but it probably hurt a great deal. With a thump on the back, Xavier told Jumpy, "Suck it up. We gotta bombshell outta here."  
  
Xavier wrapped the girl up in the (hopefully) bulletproof blanket and threw her over his should like an exceptionally large sack of potatoes. Colt in one hand, he winced as he jogged along. There were bodies of thrillers everywhere, and each time he had to hop over one, his side ached even more, and the legs of his 'package' thumped him in the ass. He still ran, pistol sweeping across the smoky station. It reeked of cordite and blood now, even more nightmarish than before.  
  
Xavier and the grumbling Jumpy made their way out of the building, having found that the secmen had taken off. To Xavier, this was too good to be true. He moved as quickly as possible, positioning the unconscious body of the girl onto his motorcycle, and then got on behind her. Reaching around her (an easy task, she was rather short), he started the bike, and took off, popping a wheelie before coming down hard on the concrete and sending sparks flying from the impact points. Jumpy was right behind him, flying along. Out of nowhere, however, two Brumbies and a Ford Americar turned out of an alley, trying to catch up to the shadowrunners. The 'runners could hear sirens wailing in the distance - some of the locals had obviously called the blue crews after hearing the vicious firefight. In the meantime, the two of them and their protégé (hopefully concealed and shielded by Xavier's bulk) rocketed past the shoddy cars that somehow managed to crawl through the slums, weaving between them in an effort to put some space between them and their pursuers. However, the enemy's continued contempt for human life was astounding. Every car on the road put a good size berth between themselves and the runners after a hail of fire from the Americar blew out the windows on a Volkswagen Impuls, sending it into a lamp post.  
  
Xavier gunned the bike, hitting almost 95 mph in the crowded streets. Jumpy had already signaled that they should split up and meet back up as Xavier's place. He flew ahead, the high performance sports bike squealing in protest as Jumpy made a quick turn, ducking into a clear alley and disappearing from sight. Xavier continued to whip along, making wide turns as the pursuers smashed aside all obstacles. Finally, they came close enough to open fire. Secmen leaned out the window, ignoring the ever- approaching wail of sirens, and opened fire. Sparks flew from where their slugs smacked against the heavily armored hog as it roared along.  
  
Xavier reached under his armored cloak with one hand and grabbed the Ceska on the Whippit sling. Elbowing the protective garment aside and steering with one hand, he set the gun to three-round burst and aimed. While the Brumbies tried to follow the faster and more maneuverable sedan, the lone Americar was leading the pack almost within thirty feet of the bike. The first and second bursts starred its windshield. The third saw blood splatter the interior of the vehicle, and the fourth raked across the hood, sending up a plume of smoke. It slowed, lost control, and rolled over onto its roof, forming a barrier to traffic going both ways in the tight streets of the sprawl.  
  
* * * * * Xavier's Personal Log (cont.)  
  
I finally got to the warehouse in the harbor district around midnight, about two hours after I had left to raid the thrillers' hideout. As I opened the door to the makeshift garage section of the large building with a remote and drifted in, I realized just how badly I was hurting. My hands were sore and clutching the handles across that chase, my rib needed to be set, and I was bleeding from the forehead where a stray bullet had nearly taken off my hat (as well as good portion of my head with it). Stepping off the motorcycle, I was greeted by Quinn, the dwarf in residence. He rolled out from underneath his lover - a rebuilt, hand painted, and refitted General Motors MPUV- and grinned behind his oil- soaked beard. Smearing his hands on his coveralls, he grinned and gestured towards me. "Fun night?" he asked as he watched the girl, still wrapped in the blanket slump off the bike and hit the floor with a thud. She moaned gently, but remained unconscious. Well, at least she was coming out of her tranquilizer-induced stupor. I grunted a response as the thick built and heavily bearded man walked over and poked her. "Jumpy's already here. Mack has already patched him up. Looks like you could use some of the same."  
  
Picking up the girl, I carried her into the warehouse proper. Originally, when I bought the place, it was just a big, empty building without any walls. When I took on my fellow runners - Mack, Quinn, and Julius- as renters, we all chipped in for cubicle partitions and other things to create a sense of privacy. Each person received a quarter of the floor to furnish as they wished, as well as having access to a small, central room. Each quarter was about a hundred square feet, and mine was in furthest one from the garage. It was excruciating to haul her with my broken rib. I somehow made it though, and rather unceremoniously threw her onto my bed. My part of the warehouse was simple, Spartan. A rug, my bed, a cabinet filled with my weapons, a chest with my clothes, a desk, a few paintings, a phone, and my Fuchi Blaster music system with my music chip collection. I was used to never really being places for a long time, so I invested some money into making my meager possessions better. For instance, I had all of my guns smartlinked, and added safeties keyed to my genes, so that only I could fire them. All of my gear was top of the line.  
  
At any rate, I reloaded all of my weapons and put them back into the cabinet. I yelled over the walls to Mack, the mage of bizarre party, "Hey, sparker! Get your sorry hoop over here and heal me up!" "Drek, man. I'm coming, but I'd better get a deal on my rent for this." The tall, emaciated mage walked into the room, grumbling. By this time, I had stripped down to only my pants and boots. Still whining, he cast a few healing spells. Looking significantly more haggard, he trudged back to his room (which happened to be a massive, arcane space that always seemed dim and dark). I felt a lot better- the bruise over my ribs was still there, but the gash on my head had healed. Checking the rib, I found it had been healed to the point where it was mostly knitted back together. The bruise was still there, so I borrowed a slap patch from Julius, the ork mercenary who barely talked to any of us. Still bare from the waist up, I went to check on sleeping beauty.  
  
By that time, she was stirring a little bit. Pulling the chair over from my desk, I sat and watched her. She was no less beautiful then compared to when I had found her. I could see her eyes roving quickly beneath the lids. Slowly, she woke up. Propping herself up on an elbow, she turned towards me with a sour look on her face. "So, what are you.wait, you're not one of the thrillers!" "No, I'm not. Congratulations on noticing." "So what do YOU want with me?" "Someone paid me to rescue you, and bring you back to the 6th Street Bridge." I shrugged helplessly. She continued to look me over from the bed, large grayish-blue eyes roving across me. She picked up on the large amount of battle and surgical scars, the blockishness over some of my muscles where armor plating had been slipped under my skin. Finally, her eyes roamed to somewhere just below my neck, where a simple ring hung from a heavy silver chain. "You're a street samurai, aren't you?" I nodded. She recognized the fact that I was too individualistic to be with a corp, and too well off to be in a gang. The girl was quick. "Well, at least I know you're not going to geek me for no reason. You've got a thing against killing unarmed prisoners." "It's called Bushido." She flipped onto her back, removing her hands from the blanket. They were bound with flex cuffs around the wrists, and I guess around the ankles as well. I stood up, triggering the spurs in my right wrist. I figured that there was no real way for her to escape: four crack shadowrunners in the building, all my weapons in the cabinet, and all the cars shut down. She flinched, and began to try to move away from me. I gently caught her hands, and she winced as I cut the bindings off. As I cut the ones tied around her legs off, she jerked away, and suddenly I was on the floor. She had kicked me in the head.  
  
I watched her leap over me, and dive into my locker, fishing out one of my heavy Colt Manhunters. Pointing it back down at me, she growled, "I'm not going to be bought and sold. I'll never go back there, NEVER!" I grinned coldly to myself. The gun was loaded and a round chambered, but without my palm print, the safety wouldn't come off. She couldn't fire the gun even if she wanted to. "Never go back where?" "Renraku, or any other megacorp. They taught me.and experimented on me. Now tell me, or I'll put empty your brainpain!" "Sorry, no dice." She squeezed the trigger.  
  
Click.  
  
Click, click.  
  
The only sound that was heard across the round was the hammer barely moving. She tried again, not quite producing results. I continued to grin at her, reaching up and snatching the pistol away from her. Jerking the slide back loudly and violently, I ejected the round from the chamber, catching it in midair. "Bang, you're dead. Shoulda gone for the knife, wetnose. At any rate, I'm not your enemy. I'll trade you: tell me what you did at the Rak, and I swear I'll get you out of Seattle and to wherever you consider safe." "Let me think about it."  
  
A half-hour later, I was embroiled in her story. This sort of information was worth major nuyen if you knew who to tell. Catherine, the girl me and Jumpy had rescued, had been a low-level mageslave at the Renraku arcology in the city, when she had been selected for an experiment in "Transaural combat upgrades". I called over Mack again, and he listened in on the conversation, translating as best he could. Apparently, this meant that her essence had been altered so that she could take abilities from physical adepts and transplant into specially prepared objects for use by mundanes. She offered to make us one each, if we could secure a small shopping list of objects. She didn't know what they did to her. just what she could do.  
  
This was huge news. The fact that phys ad powers, even minor ones, could be transferred to mundanes was a huge blow to conventional arms industry. In addition, corporate security forces could be augmented comparitively cheaply with these artifacts, as compared to the cyberware given to the elite of said forces. Whoever had this secret would be given a massive advantage over their competitors. We were in the know, and as such, the team considered itself hired for a disk with a basic rundown of the information on it, as well as the bands themselves. Everyone was supposed to get one. We had a long road ahead of us.  
  
She refused to tell us what had been done to her. In the spirit of exchange, myself and Julius offered to teach her how to defend herself. She readily accepted, figuring that some corporations would kill for this knowledge. We spent the next week ferrying her stuff from her apartment, teaching her basic firearms and close combat skills, and trying to keep from getting our hoops shot off.  
  
* * * * *  
  
Seattle's Warehouse District, 2145 Local time- June 23rd, 2060  
  
Metal blasted across Xavier's quarter of the warehouse. Catherine cringed as Concrete Dream's cruel, nihilistic lyrics assaulted her senses. "Xav!" she yelled, "Don't you have some decent music to listen to?" Xavier cackled maniacally, and gestured that he couldn't hear her. Catherine got up and walked across the doss, cursing to herself (shadowrunners, living a dangerous life, often swear loudly and quite vilely) and turned down the music. Browsing through his chips, her brow wrinkled in disgust. "Wolvesblood, The Nightmen, Seven Scum, Ghastly Weaponry?? Do you listen to anything but metal???" Xavier was lost in the music, and shook his head vigorously no. "Slot." She was only joking around, of course. Catherine had grown rather fond of Xavier and his friends over the last week and half. Xavier in particular had astounded her. When it came to business, he was like steel- hard, savage, sharp. But underneath it all, she had found a teenager who had never really grown up. He was still immature, shy, and fun despite a life spent in the shadows.  
  
Catherine had also grown on Xavier just as much. Despite her tough girl exterior, Catherine was quiet and caring on the inside. She was beautiful, smart, and above all, loyal. As someone who lived in a world wrought with betrayal and double crosses, he could appreciate that above all. They horsed around a lot, playing pranks on each other and generally trying to whittle away the time while the heat died down. Everyone packed up most of their gear, minus weapons. The rest was sent via truck to a safehouse in Cal Free State.  
  
The process was nearly complete. Catherine, with Mack's help, had created small bands of cloth for each member of the team, increasing their strength, speed and agility. Referred to as 'kamikaze bands' jokingly by Julius (who had a remarkable sense of humor for an antisocial killer for hire), they were made of simple white cotton, with a perfect red circle dyed into the center. Characters and runes spiraled outwards from the disk. Meant to be worn around the arms, the final component of their creation was for them to be dipped in the blood of a wendigo, an uncommon substance found only in a certain mageware shop found in Yakuza territory. Unfortunately, Xavier and his crew had rather infuriated the Yak on several other runs.  
  
The entire team geared up for the run. Quinn's MPUV was readied, and everyone bulked out on weapons and armor. Xavier took the same load out as ways, suited to his up close style of fighting. He and Jumpy (even though Jumpy not being used to combat) were to go as outriders on their bikes, while Julius, Quinn, and Mack escorted Catherine in the truck. The plan was for them to ride in, finish the ritual, and ride out as fast as possible. It didn't work.  
  
Xavier happily rode his bike, listening to "If You Love Me, Slam My Head Against the Wall" by Music and Mayhem, which was being blasted by the heavy truck as he wove his way through the slums of Seattle. Their lack of subtlety stemmed from the fact that they all figured the run would be over soon, and they could sell their disks for a truckload of nuyen.  
  
Unfortunately, said lack of subtlety also alerted a Yakuza patrol to their presence. Heading towards them from the opposite direction, the patrol consisted of a number of bikers, and an old flatbed truck with a Vindicator machinegun welded to the roof. There was no traffic between them, and as soon as Quinn spotted them, he yelled at Julius to man the hidden autocannon mounted to the roof.  
  
Xavier spotted them too. The five outriders, all armed with either Uzi III's or mono edged swords, had their faces hidden behind masks, goggles or rags. Most of them were obvious professionals- only the restrictions of police surveillance and availability had kept them from fielding more heavily equipped parties. However, these were hardened road warriors in their element, and already they were better outfitted than most other gangs.  
  
Automatic fire raked across the road, chopping up asphalt and sending shards flying. The denizens of the slums had fled long in advance of the battle just beginning, having seen the Yak raiding party riding through the streets. The Vindicator found its target, just as Julius fired. Holes appeared in a long line across the hood, and then to the left as the ork's hastily aimed shell landed in between the truck and a bike, tipping the former over, and sending the latter flying.  
  
The biker's body flew from the bike, landing in a pulpy mush. The legs were gone, but on the back was a sheathed katana. Eyeing the bikers now advancing with a murderous gleam in their eyes and their Uzi's barking, Xavier revved the engine, and lifted the front wheel of his motorcycle off the ground. The combat bike's armored hull protected him from the flying lead as he went for the monosword. Mono edged weapons were among the most dangerous in the Yakuza's armories- their edges had been sharpened down to nearly a single molecule, giving them to capacity to cut through metal like butter, and people as if they were exceptionally wet, warm and soggy butter.  
  
Reaching off the upraised bike as the occupants of the MPUV gave covering fire and Jumpy tried to lure the enemy to no particular spot, Xavier grabbed the weapon. The man's torso fell apart as the sword was torn away. Xavier threw it over his shoulder, and whipped the blade out before setting down his bike.  
  
Another biker was splashed in the fusillade of fire from the occupants of the wounded MPUV. Riddled with bullets, the motorcycle fell onto its side with a shower of sparks and left its rider in a crumpled heap on the road. The flatbed's crew, in the meantime, was trying to bring their machine gun back up. The Yak's near-suicidal courage came from the fact that their superiors did not accept failure - anyone who dared report a bungled operation usually committed seppuku, or ended up another corpse at the bottom of the bay.  
  
The three bikers left zeroed in on Xavier as he charged them, katana sparking and leaping in his hand as it grazed the pavement. The first came in swinging his sword horizontally, trying to behead him. Xavier's own sword swung up and parried it. Both mono edged weapons cancelled each other out, and what was left was a contest of physics. Xavier's bike had mass, but his enemy's had speed. It came down to raw strength, and as the Yakuza biker soon figured out, flesh and blood arms usually lost to ones made of vat- grown muscle laced with cables and servomotors.  
  
Xavier's wired reflexes were working full time. Before the first biker had been knocked off his bike, Xavier was targeting the next one. The biker sprawled and rolled onto the concrete, mangled. Xavier rocketed past the flying bike, which flew into a retaining wall and exploded. Hunching low, Xavier felt the bullets whiz past him. One slammed into his collarbone, another into the flesh of the leg just behind the shin, and a third drilled into his thigh. He barely felt them, as his blade leaped out from where it had been trailing behind him and tore through one of the Uzi-wielders six inches below the shoulders. Even as the surprised looking head and shoulders of the man tumbled away and the arms plummeted to the asphalt with a splash of gore, Xavier felt the rush of pain blaze through his system.  
  
Julius and the others had taken out the crew to the flatbed by then, and were desperately trying to get the MPUV to work again. Catherine, not being technically adept, watched Jumpy finish off the last biker by riding up beside him and kicking him into a pile of trash, sending him head over heel through the air. Jumpy whooped loudly and skidded up beside the other runners with a controlled sweep of bike. Looking past him, she saw Xavier leaning against his bike, crimson showing in several places through his clothes. Fear rushing through her system, she yelled an inarticulate cry and began running over to him. The red stains were growing with frightening speed, and Xavier gritted his teeth. She watched him remove a recently purchased slap patch form his pocket, and apply it to his upper arm. The pain began to slowly vanish from his face, and she realized that Xavier would probably be okay. Cracking his neck audibly, he began to peel away the clothes covering his wounds.  
  
* * * * *  
  
Xavier's Personal Log  
  
Sonuvaslitch that had hurt. I rolled up my pant leg enough to expose an awful looking superficial gash in my calf. The subdermal armor had been gouged, but the slug hadn't gone through to damage the actual use of the leg. Hearing a noise as the painkillers from the medium-level painkiller patch rushed into my bloodstream, I looked up to see Catherine sprinting towards me with the med kit from the MPUV. As she kneeled beside me, I felt a lopsided grin cross my face. She slapped it, not hard, but enough to make some noise and hugged me. "If you EVER scare me like that again, motorcycle riding maniacs won't be only ones trying to geek you. "  
  
She bandaged the calf wound as I checked the other hurts I had suffered. The blow to the collarbone had been enough to cause yet another massive bruise, but not do any actual harm. The bruise had split, so that needed to be bandaged as well. The thigh wound was a little worse- the round had gone through the subdermal armor, and needed to be fished out. I did the actual dirty work, seeing as Catherine was already looking worried half to death as she wrapped my bad arm. With that done, I was good to go. The wounds hurt, but weren't serious. The painkillers flowing through my system were enough for me to keep going, or maybe it was just the sight of that beautiful lady. Catherine was wearing one of her damn-hot outfits, with a scarlet, sleeveless duster, black tube top, and black synthleather pants. One of my favorite pistols, the old Ares Assault machine pistol (you know, the one with the extended clip and laser sight I got off Gavin) I kept from my Urban Brawl days graced her right hip.  
  
After I was done staring at her, I managed to saddle up, and finish the drive to the shop. We got there, without further incident - The MPUV has hadn't taken any damage from the machinegun, but the force had knocked a few plugs free. They were put back in place, and reinforced for next time. The store was empty, and as we entered, we all got a bad vibe. Nothing jumped out of the shadows, and not a soul was around. We looked around, and while the rest of us covered the front Mack and Catherine finished the ritual. Crouching behind display cases, we kept our weapons up as they dunked the bands one by one, and then distributed them. Everyone still crouched as they received theirs. I was second last, and I looked into Catherine's eyes as she handed me mine. Something gleamed in those eyes before she moved away. I wrapped mine around my good arm, feeling strength and awareness flood me. Most of my smaller aches disappeared, and the rest of the pain in my body was almost halved. Then it happened.  
  
Jumpy stood up, preparing to put on the band and go home. Suddenly, the glass front of the store burst into millions of tinkling shards as the hail of auto fire tore through it and into him. I heard the telltale roar of a number of assault rifles firing at the same time as Jumpy rocked back, convulsing as each round hit home and sending sprays of blood into the counter behind him. He finally collided with it, and slumped down to the ground.  
  
I used my Ceska to return fire, throwing three round burst through the windows of adjacent buildings. The return fire was sporadic, but I could see black armored figures, much like the ones from the tube station advancing at a tactical running crouch. I pegged one or two before scooping up Jumpy's band and tying it on as I ejected the spent clip from the Scorpion. Reloading, I yelled for everyone to get back to the MPUV, which was at least bulletproofed against most small arms fire. I took one last look ay Jumpy's poor, shredded body, emptied another clip for cover, then ran to catch up with the rest of them.  
  
Parked around the side, the four remaining members of my team hopped in as I jumped onto my bike. Driving up beside Quinn, I yelled at him to grab Jumpy's bike I head out, try and get us a means to get out of the city. He leaped from his precious truck, and with an affectionate pat, cut loose with a burst from his Syrko Eagle SMG to cover his mad dash. He got on the high performance bike, and the rigger disappeared into the maze of alleys in an instant. In the meantime, Mack slid over into the driver's seat and the engine roared to life.  
  
* * * * *  
  
Xavier and his team ducked into every alley, not really caring where they were going. Eventually, Xavier spotted a large tower in the distance: a part of the abandoned Renraku Arcology. Grinning mirthlessly, he veered towards it out of irony alone: their enemy would give them shelter.  
  
The heavy truck came to a screeching stop. It was full of bullet holes, little craters of molten metal when the bullets had struck armor. The autocannon was out of ammunition, and as the passengers hurled themselves from the vehicle guns blazing, Mack casts a quick shielding spell. It wasn't meant to hold- just to buy more time as Quinn searched for some way to help them out. By this time, the secmen had fought off the first blue crews, but news 'copters buzzed about, watching the action.  
  
Julius thumbed the pin out of a grenade, and lobbed it towards the glass door of the twenty-story abandoned apartment building they had chosen to occupy. By the time it blew, the 'runners were long gone, running up the flights of stairs after demolishing the elevators. Panting as he ran, Xavier called out, "Hey, how many.grenades do we.have left..?" "Two standard, one Steilhandgranate," Julius replied. "Drek.toss me.the Steil." Julius stopped just long enough to pull the long stick grenade from a boot. Xavier primed it, then lobbed it onto the landing behind them. As he resumed the mad dash, he began to count down mentally: four, three, two, one.  
  
The concussion from the blast shook them all as they raced towards the roof. Every so often, however, a black-suited guardsman would be seem behind them and cut down. Once they reached the third-to-last floor, they were overwhelmed. As they all rested, guns drawn, Xavier thought about their chances. The more time they gave Quinn, the better the odds were that he would return with some way to extricate them from their mess. He gestured for the rest of everyone to go on ahead, while he sold himself dearly to buy time.  
  
The rest of the shadowrunners managed to haul Catherine along with them. She yelled and screamed as they hauled her up the remaining flights of stairs. Bursting onto the rooftop, they found it deserted. Slowly, so slowly compared to their mad dash, the downpour began. They looked around at each other for the first time since their flight had begun, trying to realize what this meant. Julius glanced over the ledge overlooking their entrance point- it was swarming with small black figures and a number of vehicles he could identify as tanks and armored personnel carriers. Whatever corp was pulling op had to be desperate- there were well over a hundred men, plus support vehicles. He briefly wondered if the knowledge that Catherine had was worth the potential wrath of the Lone Star and Knight Errant Security forces combined, as well as the life of the late Jumpy. Casting the thought aside, he wearily scanned the rooftops and skies for some sign of hope, and unpinned his last two grenades. Dropping both without much ceremony, he leant against the ledge and waited, enjoying the sounds of the explosions below. At least both Xavier and Jumpy had been avenged in his mind.  
  
It came, just as Xavier's yells and a series shots were heard. A Federated Boeing Commuter VTOL craft was jetting towards the scene, and within seconds, arrived. A side door opened, and the craft came perilously close to the building. Huge amounts of fire flew up from the ground, but at such range most of it missed. A belt-fed chaingun turret, unmanned, greeted them. With little left better to do, the runners jumped aboard. The rain began to pour harder as Mack and Catherine were the only people left on the rooftop. She was screaming and tried to rush back and help Xavier, but Mack grabbed her around the waist and dragged her there. Everything seemed so slow - the distance between them and the plane always seemed to be miles, and she pushed and struggled against him. Finally, soaking wet and exhausted, they were aboard. Julius helped restrain Catherine as the plane jetted hesitantly away, Quinn informed of the circumstances of the run. Everyone looked out the open cargo door as the building slowly dwindled into the distance, not so much as breathing. Just as Quinn started to put on speed, a bandaged form burst out onto the rooftop.  
  
* * * * *  
  
Xavier's Personal Log  
  
I waited, both Remingtons drawn, on the stairwell. Cautiously, a black helmeted head turned the corner. I fired once, making him duck back. I saw a cylindrical object arc over the railing, and I turned away- it was a flashbang, which went off (unsurprisingly enough) with a loud bang and a blinding flash. My shotguns still pointed down the stairs, I fired blindly. Blinking away the tears and blindness, I saw a splatter of blood, a mangled body, and a retreating figure. "Care to try again, motherfraggers?" I called down the stairs. Surprisingly enough, a voice answered. "No, actually." "Huh?" "Can't we work this out somehow?" "Let's see.what can you offer me?" I responded tentatively, trying to buy my teammate time. "First, what's your name, son? I need to know who I'm talking to." "Xavier." "Well Xavier, I'm Gaston. Before he could finish his sentence, a burst of gunfire missed by head by scant inches. Only my wired reflexes saved me yet again. Darting to one side, I fired twice. A grunt of pain told me I hit something, as more of the armored shock troopers dashed up the stairs. Another double blast tore apart another secman, sending him tumbling back onto his comrades. The body flew back into the men behind it, slowing them down. Firing a third double blast, I dashed up a level, cursing the bastards. Emptying the clips of my Remingtons as I made my way up the stairs, I somehow managed to keep them ducking. I ran out onto the roof, but just my luck- it was pouring rain.  
  
When I got out into the downpour, I whipped around, looking for my comrades. They were gone. I figured that Quinn had done the right thing, managed to pick them up and get out. A great weight lifted from my shoulders as I stood there, empty shotguns in my hands. I slipped them into their holsters, and took out the Colts, the only guns left I had ammo for. I faced the door, waiting for the enemy. I was going to go out in a blaze of glory after getting my comrades out of the worst situation imaginable. I was glad to go out like this. Most people go through life fearing the day they die. Those who have looked Death in the face and said 'I do not go kindly into this good night' are the ones who are willing to die for a cause. I was one of them.  
  
Standing there, I watched seven guards and a large, cybered man rush out of the doorway. I made no move to stop them, just letting the rain pound on. It bounced off my hat, soaked into my clothes and bandages, but it didn't really affect me. I was something peripheral at best. The heavily upgraded man, who I figured to be Gaston, stopped his men from firing. "It doesn't have to go down like this. You could walk away from this, if you just tell us where the girl went," he called out across the desolate, quiet rooftop. "Not a chance in hell."  
  
My wired nerves had maxed out everything, slowing it all down. Feinting left and moving right, I brought up my pistols, sighting the troopers on my side with my smartlinks. It was all disconnected, as if I was just watching everything happen -I double tapped the first two, but Gaston was already moving by then. I felt rounds slam into my torso, but for the most part, my flak jacket held. I kept going, lobbing myself into the air (still shooting), and tucking into a tight roll when I landed. I didn't stop firing until I heard a clicking noise: the hammers of my guns hitting nothing but air.  
  
Gaston was waiting. Seeing my guns empty, he tossed down his. So, he was a street sam too, probably just contracted for this mission. I was sore and bleeding- two rounds had gotten through the vest, one lodging in my side, and the over just below my shoulder. Panting, I waited a second before drawing the monosword I had stripped off the dead Yakuza member. The spurs popped out of my arms as well. He drew a Centurion Laser Axe, and it was on.  
  
We dashed over the bodies of the dead and dying, finally colliding in the center of the roof. I held my katana with two hands, screaming off my exhaustion in the charge. Our blades met with a ring. His began to melt through mine, so I pushed him away by planting my feet. Lashing out quickly with my left spurs, I saw the light blades tear through the armor on his arms, only to slam into the metal of a cybernetic limb.  
  
I leaped back, carefully considering my options. He continued to press, swinging the axe with one hand and his giant metal fist at me simultaneously. I knew I couldn't block the cyberarm or the axe with my spurs, but my katana would shear through it like butter. I never had time for my plan, though. The axe finally melted its way though the blade of my sword, cutting it off about a foot from the top. I countered, cutting through the haft with the edge of my now-useless weapon. We each looked at the destroyed weapons we had, then the destroyed weapons the other hand, and then attacked hand to hand.  
  
I slashed and cut madly, trying to force Gaston back and give myself some breathing room. He kept parrying with his metal arm, until he set himself into an obviously chiplearnt kata position. I couldn't react fast enough, and let a jackhammer kick through my guard to my midriff . I was sent tumbling back by the taller, heavier human. I rolled out of the way of a knife handed strike that would have split my skull and raked my claws across Gaston's forearms. One bled, while the other popped and fizzled as the circuitry was exposed. He uppercutted me with his flesh and blood hand, sending me off my feet.  
  
I lay there, seeing starts but vaguely accepting that this was it, and I had done good with my last few breaths. He stood over me, sadness in his eyes as he raised his cybernetic fist for the deathblow. Then, I thought about Catherine, and the fact that I would never see her again. THAT scared me out of my wits. With my last ounce of strength, I swung my right set of spurs as hard as I could through Gaston's shin. To my surprise, they went though like butter with a spray of blood. He tumbled to the ground, screaming at his severed foot. Muscles aching, nearly frozen and dead tired, I swung my left hand back, and drove them through his throat.  
  
I managed to stagger to my feet as the life drained from Gaston's eyes. I could barely support myself, as I swayed in the rain. I held my side, feeling the rain thin my blood as it streamed down my vest. More armored secmen came from the stairs, rifles raised. So close, yet so far was the quote that passed through my mind at that moment. Then I heard it.  
  
Catherine was screaming unintelligibly, and I somehow recognized this in the back of my head. Turning around, I saw the most beautiful sight I've ever seen in my life. A Commuter roared out of the dark skies, Catherine clutching a rope ladder hanging out of it. Feet solidly in the rungs, she was screaming as she fired her machine pistol, face lit by the star-shaped muzzle flashes. Her duster whipped in the wind behind her as the plane sped towards me. A trail of brass rained out of the weapon beside her, mirroring the torrent of shell casing coming from above as Julius manned a chaingun. He short, wet hair clung to her head as her eyes blazed like some angel of death.  
  
I grinned, ignoring the fact that the secmen behind me we quite literally shredded into bite sized hunks of meat by the cascade of fire. The Commuter came to a stop, hovering above the roof as tracers dances about in the air. Catherine hopped off, and ran over to her. She helped my up, and I leant on her as we walked back to the ladder. No words were exchanged until I was safely aboard, where I passed out, happy to be with a woman who risked everything for me, loyal comrades, and on the verge of making some serious nuyen. 


End file.
